


A Bit of Christmas Magic

by misstriplem



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, F/M, Papa Arthur Morgan, Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misstriplem/pseuds/misstriplem
Summary: A one shot in which Arthur and Clara find the meaning of Christmas magic.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Clara Howard, Arthur Morgan/OC, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 29





	A Bit of Christmas Magic

Clara frowned at the tilted tree. “It’s still not straight,” she announced with a shake of her head. 

Arthur Morgan hissed a sigh from beneath the tree. “You said it weren’t straight three times already,” he growled as he jostled the pine a bit to the left.

His wife shrugged and crossed her arms, watching as the poor tree succumbed to her husband’s jerking, irritated movements.

“It’s not my fault your sense of direction is a bit off,” she said with an ill-disguised smirk.

The tree’s errant movements paused as Arthur craned his neck through the low branches to deliver a seething glare at his wife.

A few moments passed in which Arthur fought to center the tree in its stand. Clara watched with eyebrows raised as a shower of needles rained down on the floor and coated Arthur’s shirt and pants.

“Five thousand goddamn trees outside,” he grunted with a decidedly angry shake of the offending pine, “and we _had_ to bring one of them inside.”

Clara tilted her head. She thrust out her hand and shouted, “Wait! Right there!”

A handful of irritable grunts and a slew of curses later, Arthur slid out from beneath the tree, his face red with irritation. He rose to his feet and swiped angrily at the needles that clung desperately to his clothes and frowned as they fell to pool with the rest at his feet.

Clara looped her arm through his and smiled at the room’s newest décor. “It’s perfect.”

Arthur glanced sidelong at her and sighed. He scratched absently at the back of his head and forced a frown onto his lips. “Still ain’t sure why you insisted on bringing the damn thing inside,” he muttered, though his tone had lost all of its antagonism.

She looked flatly up at him. “You know damn well it wasn’t _me_ who insisted.”

At that moment, a set of hurried footsteps thundered from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the living room. A small, brown-haired blur slipped between Clara and Arthur and a pair of small, eager hands carefully clutched a bowl.

Annie Morgan lifted the bowl up to her parents. A bit of the contents—some freshly popped corn—slipped over the rim of the bowl and joined the pine needles on the floor.

Teddy, the family dog and uncontested protector of the Morgans’ daughter, appeared to clean up his tiny mistress’s unintentional mess.

“Can we do the garland, mama?” Annie asked as she tottered unsteadily beneath the weight of the bowl. Clara took it swiftly from her hands and smoothed her daughter’s wild hair from her face, earning a sour look from the toddler in response.

“Sure,” the girl’s mother said with a smile. She held up a finger in pause and added, “As long as you don’t eat all the popcorn.”

Annie shook her head. “I don’t,” she protested. She jabbed a finger at her father and said, “Daddy does.”

Arthur sighed and looked away, but not before Clara caught the look of guilt that flitted across his expression.

Clara narrowed her eyes at her husband. “I’m not at all surprised by that,” she said flatly.

Annie, who only withstood her parents’ bickering as long as her young impulsiveness would allow, wrapped her small arms around her mother’s leg and bounced impatiently on the tips of her toes.

“The garland, mama!”

Clara nodded and chuckled. “Alright, alright. Why don’t you and Daddy get started and I’ll help a little later?”

Annie frowned. “But I want _you_ to help, too.”

“And I will,” Clara conceded, “but first I have to wrap some presents.”

Annie gasped. Her eyes—blue to match her father’s—went wide with wonder.

Clara winked at her daughter and passed the bowl of popcorn to Arthur. She prodded him with a finger and declared, “If I find out you’ve been eating the popcorn, you’re sleeping in the barn.”

Arthur glared at her before frowning at the bowl. “Ain’t likely, seeing as how you can’t cook—or pop corn”—he lifted one of the slightly overdone kernels for inspection—“to save your life.”

This earned him a pinch on the side and a round of giggles from his highly amused daughter.

Arthur swept his daughter up with one arm and smirked at her. “You think that’s funny, huh?”

Annie nodded, her infectious, lilting giggle still spilling from her smiling lips.

“Let’s see if you’re still laughing after this,” Arthur growled playfully as he buried his stubble-covered cheek his daughter’s neck, peppering her with rapid-fire kisses.

Annie let out a roar of laughter and tried to push away Arthur’s face. “It tickles, Daddy!”

“Oh, I know it does,” Arthur replied with a warm chuckle.

Clara’s heart swelled as Arthur carried his daughter into the kitchen, a trail of laughter following in their wake.

He would eat the popcorn—she knew he would. But it didn’t matter. It was Christmas, after all. A little indulgence would serve them both well.

*

Arthur held the garland carefully as he draped it over the branches of the tree.

One infernal kernel snagged on a particularly wiry looking branch. He pulled carefully on the string that held the kernels together and, when that proved futile, opted to take the stuck popcorn between his fingers and try to tug it free.

It broke apart before he could lift it.

“Shit,” he cursed as the bits fell to the floor. A few more pieces of popcorn peppered the tips of his boots from his other failed efforts to lay the garland properly.

The entire enterprise had seemed ridiculous when Clara first brought it up. The only sort of Christmas he’d ever celebrated had been with the gang, and it had been meager at best. Pearson would make some sort of attempt at a special dinner, which generally meant Arthur had to hunt at least a few days in advance of the holiday. He couldn’t begin to count the years when the celebrations would be entirely absent; running from the law left little room for holidays that were generally reserved for folk whose hands weren’t covered in blood.

The only gifts Arthur had ever received were the years he’d spent with his neck firmly out of the grip of the hangman’s noose.

So, when Clara suggested they adopt some new traditions for this year’s holiday, Arthur had been dubious at least and skeptical at most. She’d told him about Prince Albert, the English Queen’s husband, who’d apparently started the trend of including decorated trees as part of the Christmas celebration.

He’d laughed—both at the fact that his wife expected him to embrace an English tradition, and because she expected him to fetch a tree to stuff inside the damn house. And, because his wife was much smarter than him, she’d enlisted the help of their daughter to convince him to follow along with the idea.

And now here he was, decorating the damn thing with some popcorn strung onto thread, feeling more a fool now than he had for most of his life.

And that was saying something.

Arthur frowned as he laid the garland along the rest of the branches with more care than he thought he could muster. His fingers felt clumsy, his usually impeccably steady hands shaking slightly as he strove for perfection. When he crushed another kernel, his blood boiled, and he nearly wrenched the tree from the ground and tossed it out the front door.

A small but decisive tug on his shirt caught his attention. Arthur sighed, unwilling to take his eyes off the garland for even a moment, and looked down into the face of his daughter.

She clutched a small, painted star in her hands. Annie lifted it up to Arthur and said, “Don’t forget the star, Daddy.”

Arthur had scoffed when Clara mentioned the magic of Christmas. There was no such thing, no way in which a single holiday could change the course of a year simply with its existence.

But when he looked into the face of his daughter, he thought he knew what Clara meant by magic. It was in the way Annie looked expectantly up at him; it was in the crystal-clear depths of her eyes, undaunted by the hardships he’d faced and helped to create. It was in the way her small hands held the star with care and consideration, as though a grip too tight might crush the spirit from it forever.

It wasn’t Christmas that created magic; it was his daughter.

Arthur smiled at her. “Sure,” he said as he brushed a thumb along her cheek. He asked, feigning ignorance, “Where does it go, again?”

Annie gave him a flat look so like her mother that Arthur felt his heart lurch with adoration. She stretched her arms up a little higher. “It goes on top!”

“Ah,” he said as he lifted her in his arms. “You’re right. Why don’t you put it up there, sweetheart?”

She frowned and turned the star over in her hands. “I can’t reach.”

Arthur tilted her chin up to look at him. “How ‘bout I lift you up, then?”

Annie’s smile brightened and she nodded emphatically.

He held her as she nestled the star on the topmost branch that Arthur had already ensured would fit the star’s base. The final task now completed, father and daughter took to inspecting the few ornaments that hung from the tree’s branches.

Annie reached out and flicked her fingers on a wooden rocking chair. She tilted her head, peered at the hand-carved item, and asked, “What’s this one?”

Arthur plucked it from the branch and placed it in her hands. “Hosea made that one for you when you was just a baby.”

Annie looked up at him. “Grandpa Hosea made it?”

Arthur grinned and nodded. “He did. And I bet he’ll make you another one if you’re a good girl.”

He replaced the ornament just as Annie’s attention shifted to another ornament. She pointed at it and announced, “This one’s my favorite.”

It was a knitted rabbit, one Abigail had crafted and sent in the mail the previous year. Some of the stitches had come loose in the year since its arrival, mostly due to Annie’s insistence on using it as a doll before Clara had convinced her to relinquish it to the box containing the rest of the family’s ornaments.

“Auntie Abigail made that for you,” Arthur said as he shifted Annie’s weight in his arm. The girl laid her head on her father’s shoulder as he pointed out another carved wooden ornament.

“This one’s from your Uncle John,” he said as Annie took in the sight of the letter A. Its edges were a bit malformed and Arthur could make out even in the dim light of the room the places where John’s impatience got the better of him. Arthur hadn’t bothered to tell him that Annie was only her nickname.

Annie whispered in her father’s ear, “It’s not as good as Grandpa Hosea’s.”

Arthur chuckled. “No, it certainly ain’t.” He made a mental note to tell John the next time he visited.

The little girl gasped and grabbed for a sewn star hanging from a branch just above her head. Arthur hefted her a little higher until she could tug it free.

“I remember this one!” she said excitedly as she thrust it into Arthur’s face.

He pulled away slightly and nodded. “Sure. You just got that one, didn’t you?”

She nodded in agreement. Annie clutched the star to her chest and gave her father a proud smile. “Jack made this one for me.”

The boy had a deft hand with a needle, so it seemed. He’d sent the ornament along with his mother’s, though John had given his to Annie the last time he delivered supplies to the ranch. Of all the ornaments that came from the Marstons, Annie loved Jack’s the most.

In fact, Arthur thought with a frown, his daughter seemed rather attached to young Jack.

Annie placed the star back on the tree with a reverence that befit a precious jewel. Arthur set her back on her feet with a kiss to the cheek, eliciting another round of giggles as his stubble nipped at her skin.

“Off to bed with you, now,” Arthur announced as he steered her toward the bedroom. “Best get a good night’s sleep before you open your presents tomorrow morning.”

Annie pouted and looked over her shoulder at him. “Can’t I open one now?”

Arthur resolutely shook his head. “Nope. Besides, even if I let you, your mama wouldn’t be very pleased, now would she?”

She pondered this for a moment before agreeing. “Then you’d have to sleep in the barn, Daddy,” Annie replied with a giggle.

He rolled his eyes. As it turned out, having a daughter was both a blessing and a realization that Arthur was vastly outnumbered when it came to women.

“That’s enough out of you, miss. Let’s get you tucked in.” Arthur said as gave Annie a gentle push toward the bedroom.

He didn’t miss the mirth that glittered in her eyes that made her look so very much like her mother.

*

Clara lowered her book as Arthur came quietly into the bedroom.

“She finally asleep?”

He nodded and yawned before setting to undo the buttons of his shirt. “Had to tell her three stories this time, but she is asleep.”

Clara smirked and closed her book. She sat up a bit on the pillows, wincing at the stiffness in her lower back. “Which one did you tell her?”

Arthur tossed his shirt onto the nearby chair along with his gun belt. “The one about John falling in the lake when we was kids,” he answered with a smirk.

Clara gave him a withering look. “You _threw_ him in the lake.”

He shrugged and took off his boots. “I left that part out.”

She blinked at him. “It scarred him for life.”

Arthur gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “So did that wolf up in Colter and yet he turned out just fine.” He muttered in addition, “As fine as a man with half a brain can be, anyhow.”

Clara sighed and picked up her book. “Next time I’ll tell the stories,” she muttered as Arthur, clothed in his union suit, climbed in beside her.

He folded his arms behind his head and smirked at his wife. “She likes my stories better.”

Clara glanced at him sidelong. Her stomach gave a little thrill as she pondered whether or not to tell him.

She’d known for a while, of course. When Arthur had asked earlier if she was feeling alright after she’d made an excuse to lie down, Clara had brushed off his concern, citing all the excitement of the tree and the presents as the reason for her sudden fatigue.

She lowered the book as Arthur heaved a deep, weary sigh. Her heart pattered in her chest as she imagined how he would react.

Even now, after all they’d been through, Clara was still frightened to tell him. But now was as good a time as any, she thought with her usual resolute defiance. The holidays held their own sort of magic, after all—what was a little bit more?

Clara pulled in a slightly quivering breath and said as evenly as she could manage, “Fine, then. At least you can get your practice in before the next one.”

For a moment, Arthur said nothing.

She watched him, heart pounding, as his brow furrowed. He lifted his head and growled, “What next one?”

Clara gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She tossed her book to the foot of the bed. “You idiot,” she muttered as she clasped one of his hands and lowered it to her belly.

She waited as he blinked at her, then down at their hands, then back up at her.

She waited a bit more as the crease in his brow smoothed and gave way to confusion.

Clara chanced the beginnings of a smile as Arthur’s eyes widened in shock.

She let the smile grow when his lips parted and his palm tentatively, warily, smoothed along the ever so slight swell of her stomach.

It was a while before Arthur spoke. He swallowed thickly, unable to tear his eyes from where his hand cradled their growing child.

“You’re…”

She nodded. “Yes.”

He lifted his head so that his eyes met hers. In them she saw wonder, surprise, and the smallest bit of fear. “Another one?”

Clara nodded again. She felt lighter now that he knew, and the pleasure and happiness she’d been harboring since her suspicion was confirmed finally flowed freely through her body. “Another one.”

Arthur’s lips curled into a joyous, wonder-filled smile just before the fear took over.

She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. Clara knew that fear; it was the very same sort they’d felt when she’d discovered she was pregnant with Annie, the very same fear that drowned out happiness and replaced it with crippling doubt.

“Arthur,” Clara murmured as she looked into his eyes. “It’ll be alright. We did just fine with Annie.”

He nodded absently as his eyes dipped back to her belly. Arthur ran his thumb along the swell and let out a sigh wracked with apprehension.

When he spoke, Arthur’s voice was dark with worry. “You sure?”

Clara smiled gently and smoothed her hand across his face. “A few years ago, I wouldn’t have been. But now, I am.”

Arthur reluctantly pulled his hand from her belly and wrapped it around her wrist. He held her hand tightly, bringing it to his chest where she could just make out the wild gallop of his heartbeat.

“What if he’s just like her?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “ _He_?”

Arthur rolled his eyes impatiently. “Or she. You know what I mean, woman.”

Clara didn’t say as much, but she did hope it was a boy. Not just because she wanted to a raise a son now that they had a daughter, but because she knew how much it would mean to Arthur. Their son would never replace Isaac—she didn’t believe that, nor would she ever _want_ to believe that—but Clara suspected that having a son would help Arthur remember that he was still capable of all the good this world had to offer.

And she knew precisely what he meant by the question. Annie was a handful, to say the least; she was wild, impulsive, and curious to a fault. She took on the world with a sense of individuality that rivaled her parents, who had both grown up believing that the world had been set against them. Annie Morgan saw only possibility, and she intended to seize every new wonder until there were none left to find. And even then, Clara and Arthur knew she still find some way to see the world as they never could.

That didn’t mean Clara thought they could survive having two of the same children in the house as well as a ranch to run. She didn’t think she’d mind trying, though, and neither would Arthur. Not at all.

She smirked at him and replied, “Well, then I guess you’ll have to find some new stories to tell, won’t you?”

Arthur let out a breathy laugh and kissed her.

“I love you,” he whispered against her lips as he pulled away.

“And I love you,” Clara said as he pulled her down to lay beside him. She didn’t bother to fight the smile that climbed onto her lips when she felt Arthur’s arm wrap protectively around her belly.

She murmured, “Merry Christmas, Arthur.

“Merry Christmas, darlin’,” he agreed with a kiss to her cheek. “Guess you was right, after all.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. “About what?”

Arthur grinned, his eyes dancing with unbridled joy. He laid a hand on their child and said, “I guess Christmas does have a bit of magic, after all.”


End file.
